


The Great, True Love

by embroiderama



Category: The Normal Heart (2014)
Genre: 1990s, Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felix Turner had a son--a son with no memories of his father. Ned Weeks has memories to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great, True Love

**Author's Note:**

> In processing my feelings about TNH, I was overcome with the need to write this. It's set in early 1993. The title is taken from one of Felix's lines. Warnings for homophobic language and canon character death.

Chris Brennan got off the train in Penn Station, checked the instructions he'd written down from a travel book at Waldenbooks, and moved along with the crowd as it streamed up the stairs then through the big station to the subway entrance. He breathed through his mouth to avoid the fetid odor of the tunnels as he stood holding his duffel bag until the downtown R train pulled into the station on a wave of wind and screeching noise. He stumbled as the train started moving then held onto a pole and tried not to look too much at the people standing around him.

He'd never been to New York before. He'd been to Boston a few times--with his mother, when he was a kid, and with some friends in high school a couple of years ago--but he hadn't gone on the subway there. Everything he'd seen of New York so far seemed very cramped and very loud, but he held his head up and did his best to act like he knew what he was doing. He was almost 19; he could handle it. If his mother knew what he was doing, she would completely flip out, but he didn't care. As far as she knew, he was in his dorm room in Connecticut, and his roommate had promised to say he was out with a friend if she called. If the truth came out later, she wasn't in much of a position to be upset with him for lying.

The fight over Christmas break had been ugly, and Chris was trying not to hate his mother, but it was hard. At Thanksgiving, she'd given him his birth certificate so he could apply for a passport, and when he got bored while doing research for a paper he looked up his father's name in the article database on the library computer. He found dozens of articles from the New York Times, not about his father but written by him--articles about famous people, some of them things he could remember from when he was a kid. And then there was nothing.

As far as Chris knew, his father had died in the 70s. He had a couple of brief memories from when he was maybe three years old, a tall man smiling at him, but for as long as Chris could really remember he'd been gone. His mother had always told him that his biological father was dead, and he'd been calling his stepfather "dad" since the first grade. He could barely remember that there had been a time when his last name was Turner. Chris always wondered what happened to his real father, but he thought it was probably something that would make his mom sad. He didn't want her to be sad.

At home, after Christmas itself was over, Chris couldn't keep his questions to himself anymore. He confronted his mother with the fact that his father had been alive at least until 1983, not even ten years ago, and her first response had been to look guilty. That kind of guilt was something he'd never seen on his mother's face before, but before she could speak she twisted the guilt into righteous indignation.

"Why in the world did you go looking for information on that man?"

"That man? You mean my father?"

"The man watching TV in the den is your father. He loves you, and what has there ever been that you needed or wanted that he and I didn't provide?"

Chris didn't have a good answer for that, but the whole situation felt so wrong. "But you lied to me! You lied!"

"It was for your own good," she snapped. "You didn't need to be around that man. I wouldn't allow it."

"What did he do that was so awful? Leave you for another woman?"

His mother laughed, a bitter snort. "Not hardly. Felix was a--" She broke off as she started to form another word then took a breath and visibly calmed down. "He wanted to go to the city to be with men. Do you understand?"

Chris didn't get it for a moment, but then it clicked. "He's gay?"

"That's right. Do you see why I couldn't allow him in our lives?"

"No, I really don't, Mom. That's fucked up!"

"You watch your language!"

"Right, because that's so much more important than the truth."

Chris felt like he was going to cry, and he didn't want to do that where anybody could see. He turned and ran upstairs to his room, where he lay face down on the bed, trying to figure out what he should do. He thought about leaving, getting somebody to pick him up and take him to the bus station. He could go to New York and look for his real father, but he didn't know where to start, and the city had to be so big. By the time his mother tapped on his door he'd calmed down and resigned himself to spending the next two weeks at home.

"Yeah?" he said, sitting up but not moving from his bed.

The door opened slowly, and his mother walked in, looking like she might have been crying, too. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you the truth sooner. You have to understand that I did what seemed right at the time."

"I don't _have_ to understand."

"Well, I suppose not." She sat down on the bed next to Chris and sighed. "What do you want me to do about it now?"

"Do you know how to contact him? Can I meet him?"

"I haven't heard from him since the divorce went through, and I have no idea where he is."

"What about grandparents?"

"His parents lived in Oklahoma, but they died a long time ago."

"So there's nothing? Nothing from him?"

His mother sighed. "He left a trust fund for you. I have control of it now, but it'll be yours when you're 25. It's not a lot, but I think he meant it to pay for college. Since we can manage that without his help, I've left it for when you're on your own."

"So you were going to have to tell me something about him eventually?"

"Eventually. But I want you to promise me you won't go looking for him. God only knows what kind of world you could find yourself in."

Chris didn't say anything but she was clearly waiting for a reply so he finally said, "Yeah, okay."

She sighed and stood up. "Just forget about him. I've certainly tried to."

She left the room, and Chris flopped back down on the bed but he couldn't sleep. It was weird to think of his father being gay, but other than the fact that it was his father Chris didn't see the big deal. He had a gay friend at school, and there was a whole student group. He could understand his mother being hurt, but not letting him and his father know each other? That wasn't cool. It felt cruel, and he didn't like thinking of his mother as somebody who would be so cruel. He didn't know what to think about any of them now.

When he got back to school, Chris did some more research but couldn't find any newer articles written by Felix Turner. He worked up the nerve to call the New York Times, and after he explained his situation to the receptionist he got transferred to the Human Resources department, where he had to leave a message. He called back three more times before finally a lady there got his father's file pulled from storage.

"Mr. Turner's employment was terminated in 1983, and in 1984 his life insurance policy was paid out."

"His--he died?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

Chris looked up at his roommate's Reservoir Dogs poster on the wall and then back down at the phone. "Are you sure?" It couldn't be right. His mother would have known if the life insurance paid out to them, and he didn't think she would have lied to him again at that point. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Chris heard the sound of turning pages. "Well, the policy was paid to a Mr. Ned Weeks."

"Thank you," Chris whispered as he hung up the phone. His father was dead after all, but Chris had been ten years old in 1984. He could have known his father and remembered him, and now all he could do was clench his fists and squeeze his eyes closed and try not to scream. He skipped class to go to the library, and what he found out about Ned Weeks was startling. There were articles by him and articles _about_ him. He seemed to be really angry, pissed off about AIDS mainly, and Chris felt a sick, curdling feeling in his stomach.

He called 411 from the pay phone at the library, but they had no Ned Weeks listed for New York. Some of the articles mentioned him being a part of some group called Gay Men's Health Crisis, so Chris called information again to get their number then talked himself into actually call their office using his phone card. The first person he talked to didn't know who Ned was, and neither did the second. Chris kept begging to be transferred, and third person knew Ned's name but said he wasn't with the group anymore. From there, he got transferred to a very busy-sounding man with a southern accent.

"I know he doesn't work there anymore, but I'm trying to get in touch with a guy named Ned Weeks. Is there any way you can help me?"

"Well, why do you want to talk to Ned?"

"I--I think he knew my father."

"Your _father_? Now that sounds pretty darn unlikely. What's your father's name?"

"Felix Turner."

The man was silent for a moment before he spoke again. "Oh, honey. I don't have Ned's number anymore, but I have his address."

"Will you give it to me? Please?"

After another quiet pause, the man read off an address in New York.

"Don't worry, I won't tell him where I got it."

"Honey, that's the last thing I care about."

The phone clicked as it was hung up, and Chris listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before hanging up as well. He found a map of Manhattan and located the address. It wasn't far from NYU, and Chris's friend Kyle from high school was going there; a plan started to come together. Less than a week later, he was on the train to New York.

He rode the subway until it got to the 8th Street stop then climbed the flights of stairs to find himself in a busy area full of stores. He'd memorized the directions he needed to follow, and he walked down 8th Street for a long block. His next turn took him past the dorm where he was going to meet his friend later, but first he had to try to find Ned Weeks. The day was sunny and mild for February, but Chris tugged his coat tighter around him as he walked down the sidewalk across the street from Washington Square Park and then a couple of blocks further. He found himself in front of an apartment building with the address he'd been given, but the front doors were locked.

Chris looked at the panel of buttons for each of the apartments. He wasn't sure what he'd be able to say to get inside, but he went ahead and pressed the button for Mr. Weeks' apartment. A minute or so later, a brusque voice came over the speaker. "You the courier?"

"Uh, yeah."

There was a buzz and a click of the door unlocking, and Chris hurried through before it could lock again. He got in the elevator, and his heart pounded in his chest as neared the correct floor. He felt like he would be sick as he walked down the hallway and finally knocked on the door. He didn't have any idea what to expect, but the man who opened the door seemed unremarkable--on the older side of middle age, shorter than Chris, just an ordinary man.

He looked Chris up and down then raised his eyebrows. "So, where's the package? In that bag with your gym socks?"

"I'm sorry. Um, I'm not actually a courier."

The man shook his head. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying." He started to close the door but Chris stepped forward and held it open.

"Please, Mr. Weeks? Ned Weeks?"

"So, what? You're serving me papers?"

"No, I'm here to ask about, uh--" Chris swallowed hard. "I think you used to know my father."

He sighed. "Okay, fine. Come in. I'm a sucker for a pretty face." He turned his back and walked inside, and Chris followed.

The apartment was larger than Chris had expected and decorated like something out of a magazine. "I, uh, nice place."

"Thanks," he said dryly. "Look, I'm going to sit down. You want to talk, come talk."

Chris followed him over to the sofa and sat down a few feet away. "Mr. Weeks, I--"

"Kid, call me Ned."

"Ned, my name is Christopher Brennan but my mom changed my name when she got remarried."

"That's nice."

"My father, my real father, was Felix Turner."

Ned's eyes went wide, and his face turned pale. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No. I saw my birth certificate a couple of months ago, and I did some research, then talked to my mom and--"

"Your mother. The one who wouldn't let Felix see his own son." The color had come back into Ned's face as shock transformed into anger.

"Do you know, did he want to?"

"Of course he did! But what was he supposed to do? It's not like any judge would've given visitation rights to a so-called dirty pervert." Ned all but spit out the bitter words.

"I think she might be sorry about it, my mom."

"Well, it's too goddamn late for that. Where were you ten years ago, huh?"

"In the third grade."

Ned's shoulders dropped as he visibly deflated. He put one hand over his mouth and shook his head. "You're what? Nineteen?"

"Almost. So, how did you know him? My father? Were you two, uh--" Chris hesitated, not sure what word to use.

"Lovers. Yes." Ned looked away, and as he said his next words he sounded like he was quoting from something. "My great, true love." He sighed then looked at Chris sharply. "How the hell did you find me?"

"The New York Times told me that his life insurance went to you."

"You looking for money, kid?"

"No, I don't care about that. I want to know who my father was. And--and what happened to him."

"What did your mother tell you?"

"She always said he was dead. I thought he died when I was about four years old or something. This Christmas when I asked her, she just said that he went to be with men."

"Well, the second half of that wasn't a lie. Felix was with men, and for the last few years of his life he was with me. He was smart and kind, and he believed that we--all of us--could be better men. And he was one hell of a sharp dresser."

Chris smiled, but the father-shaped hole inside him ached fiercely. "I don't even know what he looked like. My mom got rid of the pictures."

Ned shook his head, looking more sad than angry. He stood up and walked slowly across the main room of the apartment. "Come here," he said.

Chris followed him over to a group of framed photos arranged on the wall. There was a picture of a tallish, dark-haired man standing with his arm around a younger version of Ned, both of them in tuxedos. Chris reached out to touch the glass. "Is that him?"

"That's right."

Felix was smiling brightly, and Chris thought he could see himself in his father's face, but the man in the photo was so handsome and self-assured while Chris felt awkward and average. The next picture was a snapshot of Felix reclined in a beach chair in nothing but a speedo, his body lean and muscular, his expression serene. In another, Ned and Felix sat on a sofa together with some other men at a party; his father looked thinner, older, but still happy.

"There's another one you should see. I put it away, but I don't know what the point of that was since I see it in my head every day anyway."

Chris didn't understand, but he nodded. Ned opened a cabinet and retrieved a box about the side of a hardback book, then opened the box to reveal another framed photo. He gave it a long look then handed it to Chris, and at first Chris didn't understand what he was seeing. The picture was black and white, a close-up of two men with their faces just inches apart. They were looking at each other with a kind of rapt attention and deep love that made Chris shift uncomfortably. He realized that one of the men was Ned, but the other man looked almost elderly and very sick. His face was gaunt and shadowed, a skull with a thin covering of skin and hair. "What is this?" Chris asked quietly.

"That's when we got married, Felix and me. It's also the day he died."

Tears stung Chris's eyes, and his legs shook. He stumbled back over to the sofa with the photo in his hands and sat down hard, still staring at it, trying to see his handsome young father in the dying man in the photo. A minute or two later, Ned sat down next to him. "You okay, kid?"

"What happened to him?"

"What happened? What do you think? AIDS. Gay cancer. The plague. The holocaust." His voice rose as went on, and Chris flinched away.

"I didn't know." He knew about AIDS, of course, from school and magazines and TV shows, but it was something that happened to other people, far away. He thought about the other thing Ned had said about the picture. "Wait, you got married?"

"In the sight of God if not the goddamn government."

"Okay." Chris figured that made about as much sense as everything else. "I wish--never mind."

"What? You wish he wasn't dead? Me too."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, but I also wish he hadn't ever left us."

Ned shot an angry look at Chris, but then his face softened. "You understand that he had to be true to himself? To who he really was?"

"I want to understand."

"Think about pretending every goddamn day to be something, somebody that you're not. Pretending to love a woman when every part of you craves the love of a man. Hiding in a world full of people who hate people like you. Hating yourself. Hating what you love. Feeling like you're alone everywhere you go."

Chris thought about it, and he shivered.

"It's a kind of death. It _is_ death."

"But he died anyway."

Ned pursed his lips and looked like he might cry before he composed himself. "But first, he lived. He sure as hell lived."

Chris just nodded. He didn't know what to say. The doorbell buzzed, the actual courier this time, and Ned answered the door then walked back over with a large, thick envelope in his hands.

"Proofs from my publisher." An alarm went off on Ned's watch, and he pressed a button on it after putting down the package. "Hey, you want something to eat?"

"I--" Chris had been so focused on finding Ned that he hadn't noticed his hunger, but he hadn't eaten since a snack on the train. "Sure, yeah."

Ned walked away and came back a few minutes later carrying a tray loaded with two bottles of water, two pints of ice cream and two spoons. He took some pills from a container in his pocket then pulled the lid off of one of the pints and dug in with his spoon. "Go on. You have something against ice cream?"

"Nope." Chris picked up the pint of chocolate ice cream and started eating, feeling like somebody ought to be scolding him for eating from the container. "Thank you," he said around a mouthful.

"You're welcome. So, you want to hear more about your father?"

"If it doesn't bother you to talk about him."

"It's been nine years, and I still think about him every day so no it doesn't bother me. And nobody around here wants to hear my stories. They all have their own dead lovers and friends to think about. Too fucking many."

Ned talked while he ate, gesturing with his spoon at times, and he kept talking when the ice cream was gone. His stories about Felix were interspersed with rants about people Chris had never heard of, and all Chris could do was let it wash over him, memories of a life he'd never known. More than an hour went by before Ned was interrupted by the beeping of his watch again.

"I'm sorry, kid. I have a meeting to get to. Are you staying in the city?"

"I'm sleeping in a friend's dorm room tonight and going back to my school tomorrow. But, um, do you think you could give me a picture of my father? Just one, a duplicate maybe?"

Ned blinked then nodded. "Tell you what." He reached for a notepad and pen and handed them to Chris. "Write down your address at school and I'll send you some. Just give me a week or two to get some copies made."

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"It's the least I can do." Chris shook Ned's hand then left. He felt disoriented when he ended up back on the street, but he shook it off enough to find his way back to the park. He still had a while to wait before Kyle would be back from class, so he sat on a bench and tried to fix the pictures he'd seen in his head, just in case he never got to see them again.

Thinking of his father suffering and dying hurt in a way Chris had never quite imagined, but the old, empty pit of not-knowing was finally full and that made the pain worthwhile. Chris watched the people around him and tried to imagine Felix and Ned walking arm in arm. It felt surprisingly right.


End file.
